


I Believe in a Thing Called Love Never Dies

by canolacrush



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Animal Death, Car Accidents, Co-workers, Crack, Crowley to the Rescue (Good Omens), Deus Ex Machina, Don't copy to another site, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protective Crowley, Relationship Discussions, The Phantom of the Opera - Freeform, [PIPE ORGAN INTENSIFIES]
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-11
Updated: 2019-12-18
Packaged: 2021-02-25 23:58:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21758197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canolacrush/pseuds/canolacrush
Summary: However, the pipe organ would always be demonic in origin, even when it was twisted to sing heavenly praises.Approximately two years after the non-event of The Apocalypse, Crowley and Aziraphale finally seeThe Phantom of the Opera.  Little do they know, things are about to get twisted in every way…
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 51





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N**: Canon-wise, I’ve based this off the book version of events, and I’ve kept character physical attributes purposely 99% non-specific so you can imagine them however you like. As for character personalities, I have a feeling I ended up with a mix of both book and showverse personalities, because lbr, it’s kind of unavoidable that that was gonna happen. :P I also feel like a better summary for this whole thing would be tumblr user [laqueus](https://laqueus.tumblr.com/post/187068826030/uh-oh-sisters-phantom-of-the-opera-overture)’s iconic statement of “Uh-oh sisters! *phantom of the opera overture plays*” but unfortunately I could not in good conscience use that for my official summary. But now you know, and you’ve been warned. Happy reading!
> 
> **Acknowledgements**: Big thanks to my beta, [mycapeisplaid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycapeisplaid/pseuds/mycapeisplaid/works) for helping make things go more smoothly! I also beta for her too, so if you wanna check out other Good Omens fics, you can give hers a looksee. :)
> 
> **Disclaimer**: Names, characters, places, organizations, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real or factual.
> 
> Please do not redistribute my fanfiction on other archives or sites without my express permission. Thank you.

Let’s be clear: contrary to what every church in Western Christendom suggests, the pipe organ is a demonic invention. The seed of its predecessor, the hydraulis, was breathed into the ear of a miserably poor engineer in Ptolemaic Egypt one lonely, dusty night, and from there it did beautifully, spreading to arenas throughout the Roman Empire. It was ahead of its musical competitors by leaps and bounds—tonally complex, jaunty, energetic, a devilishly detailed piece of mechanical craftsmanship. Humans loved it, and they wanted more. (They always want more. A critical if relatable design flaw on their part.)

Heaven did not go in much for that sort of thing. Given the choice, it would always buy organic, and somehow it found the awkwardness of the human voice charming in the way that overly loving mothers insist their offspring is just ever-so-gifted and ought to win the talent show every year. It looked on the hydraulis, saw that it distracted humans from appreciating their own Heaven-ordained musical ‘gifts’ in favour of Demonic Perfection, and decided to take action.

So one day during the late 600s, the forces of Heaven appropriated the hydraulis design plans, tweaked some bits, and re-submitted it into humanity as their own “new” invention. (We took them to court over that, of course. But although Our lawyers may be better than theirs, The Judge is rather biased.) They wanted an instrument that was more suitable to vocal accompaniment, something good for popularizing hymns perhaps, and after a fateful nudge to Emperor Constantine V, it spread like the common cold through chapels everywhere.

However, the pipe organ would always be demonic in origin, even when it was twisted to sing heavenly praises. All it needed…was to be reminded of its ancestry.

On a February night, the demon Crowley sniffed a whiff of the infernal as strident, bellowing chords opened _The Phantom of the Opera_, but he paid it no mind; theatre itself was one of Ours, so it was to be expected. The audience was packed with couples and a healthy mix of tourists—over six years, and the musical was still a _tour de force_. Crowley had managed not to see it until now, The-Apocalypse-that-Wasn’t having kept him occupied in previous years, and neither had his companion, an Earthbound angel named Aziraphale.

“Not as good as Sondheim, eh?” he said to him during a haunting little number. (Crowley, bless his heart, had invented the irritant of Talking During a Live Show centuries ago.)

Normally, the angel would answer with an acknowledging hum, a quiet word, or perhaps even a whisper for his companion to hush up for goodness’ sake.

He did none of these.

In fact, he gave no indication he’d heard a word Crowley had said.

“Angel?”

Crowley squinted. Aziraphale had the same look on his face that he did after eating a profiterole—that of entranced, floating delight. Except there was no profiterole, and there were three inches of air between his backside and the velvet seat cushion. He tugged on the angel’s sleeve, and Aziraphale plunked back down into his seat with a startled huff.

“Nothing, dear,” Aziraphale said.

“Nothing what?”

“Nothing’s wrong.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s arm distractedly. “Do hush up, though.”

“Hmm,” said Crowley. He stared at Aziraphale, then looked to the stage, where the fog machine had nearly engulfed the swarthy young actor playing the Phantom.

Crowley, due to a quirk in his original form, had no talent in music. Being serpentine, he ‘heard’ sound in his jaw rather than the ear, which made his perception of the sense altogether different from that of a human and therefore useless to Us in the application of manipulating souls. Since he had little understanding of how human instruments were _supposed_ to work, he hadn’t been assigned any part in the hydraulis project, and therefore had no clue to suspect its twisted offspring. (The project had been handed to someone in Our Propaganda Department, who had a better ear and passion for these things.)

But that did not make him _blind_.

Carefully, Crowley glanced from side to side, then delicately removed his sunglasses and tucked them into the top pocket of his coat. He stared again at the stage.

If any of the theatregoers or ushers around him had cared to notice, they might have seen two bright yellow eyes shining out from the shadows of the audience.

The unfortunate actor singing his heart out, however, met those eyes.

A frisson ran through him. In an instant all his secret, buried fears tumbled to the forefront of his mind: what if this was his only big role? What if what the reviews said was true—that his understudy was the better Phantom? Just how much _more_ did he need to do to prove he was professional, that he had the depth and maturity, that he was _ready_ for more? Or was he? He could—

Just as quickly as they had come, the thoughts blinked out, as did the eyes.

Which of course weren’t _eyes_. They were probably just some idiot trying to record the performance. The ushers must have got to him. Good riddance.

The actor, consummate professional that he was, hadn’t even broken a note in the two seconds Crowley had peered into his soul.

Crowley snugged his sunglasses back onto the bridge of his nose and folded his arms, frowning. As far as he could tell, nothing was wrong. The actor was no occult force in disguise. The air of the theatre had the same usual taste of light sin to it—the wine-soaked popcorn kind, acrid and buttery, to which Aziraphale had long ago developed an easy immunity. Perhaps it was nothing. The angel was known to spin off into his own little world when deeply engrossed in something, be it a book, a meal, or anything else that captured his attention.

But Crowley was a demon through and through. Whereas an angel could define itself as a being of faith, a demon was the opposite: it defined itself as a being of suspicion. And Crowley had built up millennia of suspicion to become a well-guarded bastion of paranoia.

So he sat with this feeling of Something-is-Wrong-ness and stewed.

He stewed through the rest of the first act, through the intermission, into the second act. With every passing second that Aziraphale failed to question why he was being so quiet, the feeling grew. When he tugged the angel down from spontaneously levitating a second time during the climax of the second act, Crowley almost—nearly—but could not _quite_ put his finger on what, exactly, was wrong here.

“Crowley? Crowley, my dear.”

Crowley started and nearly took out a bus stop sign. A pedestrian swore at him. “Huh? What?”

“I was asking what you thought of the show,” Aziraphale said.

He honestly couldn’t remember most of it. He wasn’t sure when they got in the car either. “’S fine. Liked the bit with the chandelier, I guess.”

“That’s _all?_” Aziraphale said, astonished. “You must’ve had your head up in the clouds, dear boy, there was rather more than _that_.”

Crowley side-eyed him. “You’re one to talk.”

Aziraphale ignored him. “The costumes, the _music_…and the sets were rather nice, too. I thought you liked that sort of thing, set design.”

Crowley shrugged. “It’s no _Into the Woods_.”

“That’s—Crowley—that was the bookshop!” Aziraphale sputtered, and Crowley slammed on the brake. A fierce horn and a crunch followed behind them.

Crowley hissed and miracled the damage out of existence, then waved for the traffic to go around him. It didn’t dare do otherwise.

Aziraphale sighed. “I keep _telling_ you to watch the road.”

“Yeah, and look at all the good _that’s_ done for you all these years,” Crowley grumbled.

“What’s gotten into you?” Aziraphale huffed.

Crowley thought about it. “Nothing,” he decided, then eyed the programme Aziraphale kept folding and twisting in his hands. “Give it,” he said, snatching it up and flipping through the brochure like he hoped to find the answers printed at the end.

“Don’t you have one of your own?”

“Not anymore,” said Crowley, who had promptly thrown his out as soon as the show had ended.

“Wasteful,” said Aziraphale.

“Demon,” explained Crowley.

The answers weren’t making themselves known in the programme, but he did find that on looking at the song list that he really _couldn’t_ remember most of them. Crowley was no walking encyclopaedia—not like Aziraphale, who _was_ one in some respects—so he didn’t see the point in remembering every single detail over millennia, but he didn’t have a _bad_ memory either. He remembered things he liked. And while he didn’t like _The Phantom of the Opera_, senility wasn’t something a demon had to worry about; he couldn’t just _forget_ it all in less than an hour.

“—a long evening. Goodnight,” Aziraphale was saying. The car door slammed.

“Huh—wha—wait!” Crowley said, the rest of Aziraphale’s sentence catching up to him. He scrambled out of the car. “Angel, wait!”

He caught him at the door to the bookshop. “Angel, wait—let’s just say—hypothetically—what _if_ something was wrong?”

Aziraphale stared at him, befuddled but serious. “How do you mean?”

Crowley racked and racked his brain like an abused vending machine (one of Our finest inventions), trying to get the answer to fall out on its own because he was 5p short. “What—What if it just _was?_” he said.

Aziraphale sighed, then said, not unkindly, “Crowley, it’s been more than two years now. If something were to happen, I should think it would've happened sooner than this. The Antichrist reset it all for us.” He offered a faint smile. “You don’t have to keep looking over your shoulder.”

Which was something only a being of faith could say, really, and about as helpful as telling a duck not to swim.

“…Right,” said Crowley.

Aziraphale’s brow furrowed. “You’re looking a bit peaky, too, dear,” he said, then nodded decisively. “You should go have a lie-down.”

“…Right, yeah, guess I should,” Crowley said, rubbing at his temples. He was beginning to wonder if he had what humans called a Headache; it made a nice, long nap sound wonderful.

“You rest up and take it easy, then. Goodnight,” Aziraphale said, and closed the door behind him.

Crowley’s eyebrows shot up, and he stared at the shop door for a long, cold moment. He shivered.

Something was definitely wrong. (And of course, he was right.)


	2. Chapter 2

It was a long, long nap. The kind of nap you wake up from and feel like you haven’t rested at all, head still fuzzy, time still dragging and slow. It could’ve been weeks.

Fortunately for Crowley, it had only been four days.

After rolling off the sofa, crawling to his desk to check the ansaphone and finding no messages there, he hissed and pulled himself to his feet before taking out his bad mood on the plants.

There was nothing from the angel. It wasn’t unheard-of for them not to talk to each other for a week or two depending on their mood, but it _was_ unusual for Aziraphale not to make even a token effort to check on him if he believed Crowley was feeling poorly (That is, poorly in the way a demon _can_ feel—rarely is it physical, but We are prone to psychic ailments, living an existence of unceasing Torment as We do. Crowley is on file as a chronic sufferer of Acedia, for instance).

The bookstore heard him coming a mile away.

It creaked a sigh of relief and, sensing his foul mood, opened its locked doors. Crowley stormed in.

Familiar organ music blitzed back at him.

He hissed, sought the source, and—the surprise of it shocked him out of his wrath—it was coming from an _electronic device_.

“Is that a _CD player?_” Crowley said, aghast.

“Oh, hello, Crowley,” said Aziraphale, peeling himself out of his cosy armchair. “Are you feeling any better?”

Crowley stared at him, then at the device resting on the ill-used counter next to an antique cash register. “Since when do you have a _CD player?_”

“Since, ah…when was that now?” Aziraphale said, tapping a finger to his mouth. “Yesterday? No, I think it was the day before…anyway, I popped round to the record store to see if they had any recordings of the soundtrack, but they were sold out, can you believe it? So I went to the theatre and asked and—well, it was an adventure after that, I can assure you,” he said, smiling brightly.

Crowley stared at this being in front of him who still used a particularly ancient model of rotary phone to make calls, who’d kvetched about it the whole damn time it was being installed, whom he regularly had to drag pouting and huffing into minor technological advancement. “_You._ You bought a CD player. By yourself.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said, bouncing once on his heels, hands folded behind his back.

“To play _The Phantom of the Opera_.”

“Yes! It’s interesting, especially the differences between the concept album and the original cast recording.”

Crowley stared at him some more and—that was the waistcoat Aziraphale had been wearing at the theatre four nights ago, the fancy one that had gold threading in the diamond pattern, with black pearl buttons. He was always so _careful_ about that one; it’d been a favourite since 1784. He wouldn’t just wear it casually.

“Have…Have you eaten anything yet?” Crowley croaked.

“Hmm,” said Aziraphale, expression turning thoughtful, “come to think of it, I can’t re—well, I haven’t had supper yet. Would you like to?” He smiled.

Crowley masked his horror. He hadn’t missed that syntactical course correction, or the abrupt change in the angel’s facial expression from confusion to cheerfulness. “Yeah, let’s,” he said, turning his nose sharply to the door. “Now, if you don’t mind.”

“But it’s not even three—”

“_Now_, angel,” Crowley said, heading to the door.

“Oh, well, I’ll just—” he said, casting a dithering look at the CD player, “—I’ll just leave that on. In case of burglars, you know. So they think someone’s home. I’ve heard that—”

“Sure, whatever, come _on_, angel,” Crowley said, holding the door open.

Aziraphale finally came to him, but it was only after they were sitting down and Aziraphale was ploughing through a steak with obvious relish that the coiled nerves within Crowley relaxed a little. He sipped some wine, ate a bit of soup. Aziraphale was concentrating on the steak and humming reedy strains of what Crowley suspected were love songs from the damned musical, but at least it was better here, away the full-force blast of the CD player. Maybe Aziraphale would be able to hear reason now.

Crowley cleared his throat and reached for his glass again. “So about what I suggested the other day…”

Aziraphale looked up warmly from his own glass. “About me marrying you?”

Crowley’s wine exploded. “WHAT?” he spluttered, diving for the serviettes.

“Well, you _did_ ask…” Aziraphale said, taking a sip with an actual fucking _flutter_ of eyelashes.

Crowley gawked, heedless of the glass shards in his food. “Since when did I ask _that?!_”

“When _was_ that now…I think it was on the Sinai Peninsula. The Wadi Feiran?” he said, bright blue eyes connecting with Crowley’s, seeking recognition.

A dim memory floated up from the depths of Crowley’s subconscious—tall mountains rising around an arid valley, a starry cold night, the smell of goats and coffee. He pressed both hands over his face and groaned. “Aziraphale, that was _two hundred years_ ago!”

“One hundred and ninety-four, actually.”

He threw his hands in the air. “What does it matter! I was—_compromised_, you said you’d think about it, and we’ve never brought it up since! What the hell does that have to do with _now?_”

Aziraphale smiled, tilted his head, serene. “Well, you know what they say: the bridge is burned and all that. And…we’ve passed the point of no return ourselves, haven’t we?” He placed a hand over Crowley’s.

Crowley blinked, and blinked again. He could feel the alcohol swimming up and down inside him, dizzying and warm. For a moment he was seeing those desert stars again, reflecting out of Aziraphale’s eyes. His hand was burning. “That—That’s—ngk,” he said, biting his tongue, his eyes fixing on the black pearl buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat. “That’s—bless it, stop distracting me! Why are you still wearing that!” He ripped his hand out of Aziraphale’s grasp and pointed at the offending article.

Aziraphale looked down, then back up with a wry look. “We’re in a restaurant, dear. It’d hardly be appropriate to remove it.”

All the warmth of the wine swam into his face. “_No_, you idiot! I meant why are you still wearing it _today_, you’ve been wearing it since we went to the theatre!” He hissed and put a hand to his temple, shaking his head. “Bless it all, you _must_ be ill,” he said under his breath.

Aziraphale looked down again at the waistcoat and plucked at the bottom hem, frowning. “Since the theatre…yes, I was wearing this then, wasn’t I,” he murmured.

“And you’ve been wearing it for four days straight. That’s not normal, not for you,” Crowley stated. He looked up and stared him down through his glasses. The furrow in Aziraphale’s brow deepened, the eerie placidness that had been in his face all night starting to dissipate. “Something’s wrong. You’re not acting like yourself. It’s something to do with that musical, it’s messing with you.”

Aziraphale immediately scoffed. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “Aziraphale, you couldn’t even remember when you’d last eaten. You didn’t even call me these past four days!”

A strange, severe expression came over Aziraphale. It was…cold, like a marbled saint. “I assumed you could take care of yourself. You’re a grown demon, Crowley.” He stabbed a final piece of steak. “Besides, I don’t see what any of that might have to do with a simple musical.”

Crowley’s jaw clenched. If he didn’t know better…but no, it couldn’t happen to an _angel_, could it?

(Except it could, and it _was_, and the hourglass was rapidly draining, whether Crowley knew it or not.)

“Are you finished yet?” Crowley said sourly.

Aziraphale glared back at him. “Yes, I think so.”

Crowley paused, waiting for Aziraphale to suggest dessert. He didn’t. Yet another thing wrong. 

“Fine,” he snapped, and called for the bill.

The drive to the bookstore was frosty, and when they went inside, the music was there to greet them like a loud, effusive aunt. Crowley started grinding his teeth, his jaw throbbing.

Aziraphale, on the other hand, sighed dreamily, the stiffness in his shoulders melting away and his beatific smile bubbling up. “You see, Crowley? There’s nothing wrong,” he said, patting the demon’s arm affectionately, like nothing had happened at the restaurant at all. “I think you’re just worrying too much. Come in, have a drink with me.”

Crowley rubbed his temple. The headache was coming back. “I think I’ll passss.”

“Suit yourself,” Aziraphale chirped. He floated into the bookshop—_actually_ floated, which Crowley hadn’t seen him do since the Biblical era—and his fingertips gently swept over the surface of the CD player as he passed by. Crowley narrowed his eyes. Inexplicably, the volume swelled.

_…Turn your thoughts away from cold, unfeeling light…_

Aziraphale settled into his armchair like a bird tucking into its nest. He stared into nothing.

Crowley hesitated by the door. He couldn’t just leave Aziraphale like this, but he had no clue how to fix it yet. He barely had a clue what was even _happening_. Getting Aziraphale away from the music hadn’t seemed to help…but what more could he possibly do?

“Aziraphale…” he said, just loud enough to be heard over the music.

“Yes, Crowley?” Aziraphale said, looking over.

“Could I possibly…borrow that album?” he asked. “Just for a night?”

Aziraphale frowned. “But you said you didn’t like it.”

“Yeahhhhh, well…maybe it’ll change my mind if I listen to it somewhere else. You always make it smell so _weird_ in here, you know, it messes with my focus.”

Aziraphale’s frown darkened. “You’ve never complained about the smell before.”

“Come _on_, angel,” Crowley coaxed, slithering forward. He put an arm over the back of Aziraphale’s armchair. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends do this sort of thing for each other.”

Aziraphale squinted at him. “Well…yes, we are, but…you could always just buy a compact disc for yourself.”

Crowley drooped and let out a pained, mournful sigh. “You don’t trust me…after all we’ve been through, angel! The Apocalypse! The Arrangement! When have I ever betrayed you, to make you think you couldn’t trust me with your _precious_ Phantom for a single night!”

Distress suddenly flickered in Aziraphale’s eyes, and he was on his feet. “Now, Crowley, I didn’t say _that_…”

“No, no, I see how it is,” Crowley said, shaking off a pawing hand. “Demon and all that. Can never _really_ trust a demon, can you? I get it. I’ll be on my way.” He headed for the door, mentally counting to three.

“_Crowley._” Aziraphale dashed after him and snagged his wrist. His hand was cold—the angel’s hands had never been _cold_ before—and Crowley looked at him. Oh, he looked _torn_. Crowley almost felt guilty. “Crowley, if—if it means _that_ much to you, my dear—you’re being awfully silly, you know, of _course_ I trust you.”

“So I can borrow it, then?” Crowley said, watching him carefully.

The hand around his wrist clenched, hard. “Well…Well, I—” He bit his lip. “—I—I _suppose_, er—I could make do with the…concept album…for a night.”

“Oh, could I borrow that one too?”

“_NO_,” Aziraphale hissed, and Crowley’s eyebrows flew up.

“Okay, okay,” Crowley soothed, raising his spare hand defensively. “I’ll come back tomorrow for that one.”

“Yes—of course,” Aziraphale said with a sigh of relief. He released Crowley’s wrist and smiled. “I’m _sure_ you’ll like it this time, Crowley. It gets better on replay, I’ve found.”

Crowley rubbed at his wrist. “Yeah, yeah, sure.” It wasn’t much, but it was a start; maybe he’d uncover something fiddling with the discs. He turned and stalked towards the CD player, which warbled at his approach.

_But, AzIRaphAle . . ._  
_Fear can_  
_Turn to love_

Crowley’s cold-blooded heart plunged into ice, then flared up, boiling. “_No!_”

“Hm?” said Aziraphale, hovering over his shoulder.

He shot a finger at the device. “That _thing_ just said your name!”

“Don’t be ridiculous, of course it didn’t.”

“I knew it, I fucking _knew_ it,” Crowley snarled, storming forward and yanking the entire CD player out of its socket. “I fucking **_knew_** those bastards were behind this somehow!”

The music kept playing.

“I didn’t say you could take the whole thing!” Aziraphale snapped, grabbing the CD player.

Crowley wrenched it out of his grip. “This is for your own good, angel!”

“_Give it **back**_,” Aziraphale growled. A sudden _woosh_ of energy buffeted around them, and Aziraphale’s wings were out and raised. His eyes brightened until they glowed an unnerving neon blue that Crowley hadn’t seen in centuries—the angel had learned to suppress it within the first millennium of human existence, but on the blue moon occasions when Aziraphale well and truly felt divine wrath, the colour escaped, wreaking havoc like a flood of dye on unsuspecting laundry.

It was enough to make a demon quiver and remember the swords of Heaven.

Crowley gulped. He’d faced down these same eyes once before, practically two millennia ago, and they still terrified—but he had to trust that what worked then would work again. He slammed the squealing CD player on the counter, tore off his sunglasses, and grabbed his friend’s face in his hands, boring into those eyes with his own.

“_Lisssten to me, you idiot,_” he said.

It was like staring directly into the Sun, blinding, painful, awful. But he could also see something growing in the depths of those white-blue stars that shouldn’t be there—something dark and so unlike the very core of Aziraphale that it was an outrage, some unholy earworm crawling from the crevice of his corporation’s skull into his eyes.

“_Lisssten to me, I will fix it,_” Crowley hissed, squinting through the pain. “_Do you want to burn down your ssstore? Becaussse you will, at thisss rate._”

The furrow in the angel’s brow receded.

“_Lisssten to me, you will sssit here, you will read your funny Biblesss, and you will **let me fix it**,_” Crowley said. “_Let me, angel. I will fix it._”

“You will?” Aziraphale whispered.

“_Yesss._”

With a sigh, the glow bled out of Aziraphale’s eyes, and he looked like himself again.

“Owww,” said Crowley, releasing him, coiling over, and rubbing his hands over his eyes, momentarily unable to see anything but blinding white and red.

“Oh—oh _God_,” Aziraphale gasped, and there was a hand on Crowley’s shoulder. “Oh God, did I—?”

“No, angel, ’m fine,” Crowley said. He hastily convinced his eyes to heal before looking up. He groaned. “Angel, I said I’m _fine_. No need to get all worked up.”

There were tears building in Aziraphale’s eyes. His face was ash-white.

“What did I…?” Aziraphale whispered.

“Sit down,” Crowley ordered, nudging him into his chair. He grabbed a mug full of congealed cocoa and miracled it anew. He placed it on the coffee table. “Read your funniest Bible and _stay here_ until I come back.”

“_Crowley,_” Aziraphale said, and he sounded so pitiful that Crowley was tempted to—he wasn’t sure _what_, exactly, but he was tempted to. 

Crowley miracled a biscuit on a plate next to the cocoa. He weaved to the counter and put his sunglasses back on.

“Crowley, where are you going?” Aziraphale keened.

“Gonna fix it,” he replied, scooping up the whispering CD player and the album case holding the other disc. “Should be back by tomorrow. Probably.” He looked back at the distressed angel and smiled. “Relax, angel, compared to the Apocalypse, this is nothing.”

It was a lie, of course. Crowley had no idea what was in store for either of them, and he was rather terrified about that. But one of Crowley’s strengths was that he was rather determined when he put his mind to something, and he was determined to keep his word. Every demon knows a lie can turn into a truth at the drop of a hat, therefore any promise can be made without fear (all that really matters is whether one intends to keep said promise).

And when it came to the angel, Crowley had a stupidly stubborn weakness: he couldn’t break a promise to Aziraphale even if he tried.


	3. Chapter 3

Crowley roared down the M3 in dead silence.

The CD player sat in the passenger seat beside him, its mouth agape and a little worse for wear (Crowley had needed several wallops to get it open and seize the disc out of its cavity; only then had the music finally stopped).

The CD case lay on the dashboard, the small image of a white mask illuminating when headlights going to London passed by.

One thing that can be said for Crowley is that he’s rather clever for a demon. Not the _cleverest_ of the demons, of course (We all know who holds that title), but among the Pandemonium, he ranks above average. He’s a quick thinker, resourceful, and possesses a self-preservation instinct that can only be rivalled by a cockroach; the fact that he was able to outsmart two Dukes of Hell is testament to that.

So it’s no surprise that his first instinct on realizing that the forces of Hell might be interfering with his friend was _not_ to barge straight to the source demanding an explanation. Doing so would’ve been suicide. He was one demon against multitudes, and questioning one of Our projects was tantamount to treason (not that he wasn’t on the books for that already—the other denizens may have been made to forget, but Our memory is not so flimsy that it can be rewritten by Our Own Son. “Never Forgiven, Never Forget,” as We say).

Instead, Crowley was seeking the earthly executor of this scheme.

The clock had ticked past midnight, and though it takes a sane human about an hour and a half to drive to his destination, Crowley had made the drive in half the time. Gravel crunched beneath the tyres of his car as he stopped outside the sweeping lawn of a large brick mansion and turned on the rear-view mirror light.

“That reporter better not’ve been lying to me,” he muttered, unfurling a road map that should’ve been at least forty years outdated by now, except that Crowley had refused to let it become outdated. On it, there was a shaky line drawn in red ink and an X where he was supposed to go.

He looked up and squinted at the outline of the house in the moonlight. “’Spose that’s it,” he said, tossing the map into the back seat. He fished a spanner out of the glove compartment and tucked it inside his coat, carefully picked up the CD player and album case, got out of the car, and sauntered up the grass.

It was far later than most middle-aged humans would still be awake; however, several lights were still on inside.

The back door was unlocked. Crowley paused, frowning. He tasted the air. A stale, watered-down taste of frankincense carried on the wind from the deconsecrated church nearby. The mansion itself, though, tasted like cat, wine, and…something familiar. Almost like home. His frown deepened, but he went in.

An absurdly wealthy man lived here, if the size of the house and grounds hadn’t given it away already. As Crowley slunk through the halls, doe-eyed, full-lipped Pre-Raphaelite originals gazed back at him. He followed the sound of tinkling piano keys to its source and nodded to a Turkish Van cat sprawled on an antique sofa. The cat hissed and arched its back before scampering out of the room.

“What’s the matter, sweetheart?” said the man at the piano, stopping mid-note. “Not to your liking?” He turned on the bench and came face-to-face with Crowley.

Crowley had expected the gasp. What he had _not_ expected, however, was the sharp-toothed, delighted grin the man gave him, or his own jolt of recognition on seeing the shiny, black ocelli of a spider staring back at him.

“Dude! Creepy-Crawly!” said Sir Andrew Lloyd Webber.

“Oh bless it, it’s _you_,” groaned Crowley.

The composer sprang to his feet. “Yah, of course it’s me, I live here. _You’re_ the one bustin’ in, Crawly.”

“_You_ don’t live here, _this man_ lives here,” Crowley said, gesturing at the man’s body.

The other demon shrugged. “Same difference. I help him pay the bills, don’t I?” His grin widened fangily, and he stepped forward and punched Crowley in the shoulder. Crowley winced. “But what the hell brings you ’round these parts? Last I heard, you were glitzing around London and whatever. What was _up_ with that Apocalypse, by the way?”

“Beats me,” Crowley grumbled. He held up the CD case. “So this is your work, then?”

The demon preened. “Yeah, dude! The humans are eating that shit _up!_ I even got a commendation for it, y’know.”

“Well, I’m gonna need you to stop it,” Crowley said.

The demon froze. His big, jovial smile dropped. He stared at Crowley. Crowley glared back. “As _if_,” he said at last, sneering.

“_Akavish_,” Crowley hissed, for that was the demon’s name.

“Andrew,” Akavish corrected idly, examining his nails. “Up here I go by Andrew.”

“Andrew is _this man’s_ name!” Crowley said, pointing up and down the human’s body.

“What, and two dudes can’t have the same name? Are you the Name Police or something? Fuck off.” He folded his arms. “_Phantom_’s my _magnum opus_, Crawly, I’m not gonna trash it just ’cause _you’re_ getting all jealous. Take it up with my boss if you’ve got a problem with it.”

“It’s a bigger problem than you think,” Crowley said. “And if it’s what I think it is, I need it fixed _fast_. I can’t wait on _paperwork_.”

“Talk to the hand,” Akavish yawned.

“It’s an _angel_,” Crowley said through his teeth. “It’s influencing an angel.”

Akavish blinked. “No shit?” His grin returned full-force. “An _angel! Fuck_ yeah, dude!” He clapped his hands together, and there was a ghostly echo of three other sets of hands clapping from nowhere. “Dude, that’s a promotion at _least!_ Heh, maybe I’ll even outrank you now, Creepy-Crawly.”

Crowley dropped everything and grabbed the shorter demon by his shirt collar. “Not just _any_ angel.”

Akavish stared at him, and his grin slowly, and impossibly, widened. “Ohhh,” he said softly, mockingly. “So it’s _your_ angel, then.”

Crowley jostled him, a plume of smoke gushing out of his nose. “_Thisss isssn’t a requessst. Fix it._”

“Nope,” said Akavish, wrenching Crowley’s fingers off his shirt with a surprising (or perhaps unsurprisingly arachnoid) strength. “No can do. I’ve got my orders.” He offered a non-conciliatory smile and shoved him back. “Sorry.”

Crowley shook out his hands, glaring. “Alright, well, didn’t want to do this, but,” he said, pulling out the spanner from the inside of his coat.

Akavish laughed. “So that’s your game, huh?” He cracked his knuckles and reached for an open bottle of wine resting on a nearby coffee table. “Should warn you, just because this guy’s old doesn’t mean _I’m_ rusty.”

Crowley grinned in spite of himself. “Go ahead,” he said, adopting a raspier tone than usual, “_Make my millennium._”


	4. Chapter 4

A common denominator exists between humans and demons: they each have a longstanding entertainment culture based on physical combat. (It’s what separates them both from the angels, who take up arms solely in the interest of business.) Humans love fighting. They developed a plethora of sports around the urge to beat the living shit out of each other, sometimes adding animals into the mix, and they do it for _fun_.

Demons are no different. We watched with interest as humans invented gladiatorial matches and took notes, because even in Hell the multitudes need something to do or watch on a Saturday night. One could say gladiatorial combat is Our national sport. Whether they’re a contestant or merely a spectator, most demons take some interest in it, and many a small imp grows up daydreaming of becoming that star-studded gladiator who wins eternal glory and the praise of their Emperor.

Crowley, as usual, was a bit of an outlier. He’d watch the demonic games sometimes—enough to make an appearance and offer a quip or two at water cooler discussions, but he never stayed to the end of a tournament. He preferred loafing about at home, and when it came to fighting, he would rather slither his way out of it than participate. Everything he learned about fighting was through his interactions with humanity over the millennia and his bored observation of the demonic games.

Akavish, on the other hand, knew a good deal more about demonic combat, and at one point had tried a stint or two in the games himself before realizing that his strength was in the arts rather than athletics. But he also had the disadvantage of inhabiting a creaky old human male’s body rather than his own form, so even his amateurish capabilities were severely limited.

The end result was like a fight scene out of _Bridget Jones’s Diary_ (one of Our great productions, coming soon to a theatre near you): there was no art to it, no impressive brutalism, just two minor demons screeching obscenities and throwing chairs at each other up and down the entire mansion, occasionally taking turns to throw one another out the windows. It was, frankly, embarrassing to watch. And it just kept _going_. At one point a few pillows exploded, with handfuls of Crowley’s feathers joining the mix. Boxes of cereal were obliterated with bran flakes strewn all over the floors. More than a few expensive wines were sacrificed over a demon’s head. Ice cubes were pelted with reckless abandon from an open fridge.

It only ended when Crowley reached for a painting of a dark-haired, long-fingered damsel holding a pomegranate.

“_Touch the Proserpine and I’ll **kill** you_,” Akavish rasped, leaning against a shredded sofa.

Crowley brandished his spanner meaningfully at the painting’s face, heaving for breath.

“Okay, I give, I give,” Akavish said in a rush, and as soon as Crowley lowered the spanner, he sank onto the sofa with a groan.

Crowley wobbled and collapsed on the floor in a puddle of limbs and feathers.

Neither of them looked well. Granted, Crowley hadn’t been trying to _kill_ the body Akavish was possessing; it would’ve been wildly inconvenient for him to outright murder a world-famous millionaire composer—too many people would get involved in the investigation, and covering _that_ up would be too much effort to be worth the trouble. Besides, he still needed answers. Likewise, Akavish knew that it would be nearly impossible to discorporate Crowley while he himself was so physically limited. But they’d made their points.

Crowley crawled his way over to the couch and plopped on the floor beside it. “Tell me how to fix it,” he said.

“Chill out, would ya? I’ll get to it,” Akavish said. He reached unsteadily for a (mostly) unscathed bottle of wine and took a swig. “Here,” he said, handing it down.

Crowley took it and chugged.

“Dude, save some for me.”

“No,” said Crowley, taking another pointed sip.

“Well, I _was_ gonna leave out the villain monologue but now you leave me no choice,” Akavish threatened.

Crowley rolled his eyes and passed the bottle back up.

“Thanks,” said the demon, drinking down a gulp. He sighed. “So in the beginning—”

“_Oi_, you said no monologues!”

Akavish smirked. He was missing two teeth now. “The only way you’ll know how to fix your little problem is if I tell you. So you have to listen to me no matter what.”

“Ugh,” Crowley groaned, letting his head fall back on the couch seat cushion and closing his eyes. “Do we really have to do this? Can we please just skip it?”

“The most important thing to fixing it all, Creepy-Crawly, is understanding a _captive audience_. Like you are now—you can’t leave ’til you have your answer, so I’m holding all the strings here.” He took a long, pensive sip. “The reason _Phantom_ works—or any of my projects, really—is because it’s not about the plot, or the characters, or whatever. It’s about the audience. See, _they’re_ the characters you have to control. You gotta control them through the _music_.” He wobbled a hand expressively in the air. “Like, it’s not about the girl. Hell, the girl resists the whole way through, she’s _scared_. Everyone always forgets that. But that’s the hook, dude—you start with something virtuous and innocent, and to reel ’em in, you gotta make the audience think that _they’re_ the girl, you know? You gotta trick ’em into putting themselves in the girl’s place, make them hear the music through _her_ ears, and then it’ll take on a different meaning for them. Because, like, if you just go up to a chick and be like ‘Hey, come to the dark side, it’s sexy,’ they’re not gonna buy it. But once they put themselves in a _character’s_ place, it’s a whole other story. That, like…distance or whatever, they think it’s _safe_, y’know, to explore it, that it’s all cool and sexy in the abstract, and once you get the right tune it’s like—” He snapped his fingers, ghostly echoes following after, and Crowley startled awake. “—then you’re in.

“It’s the same with _Superstar_. Start with something everyone thinks is good and wholesome—story of their religious founder—but tell it from the POV of Judas, someone who’s on the outside looking in, A.K.A., _the same position the audience is in_, and you’ll have them questioning whether the guy really knew what he was doing all along, you’ll have ’em _doubting_. Just give Judas the catchiest song in the show, and you got ’em.”

Crowley surreptitiously tried to check his watch, only to find it was broken. “Never saw that one,” he admitted. “What was the deal with _Cats_, then?”

“Honestly, dude, I didn’t do much with that one,” Akavish said. “T.S. Eliot did most of the work for me. I just put a couple of songs’ worth of music to it, y’know, to really sell the appeal of our cause. My roommate here did…the rest.”

“Yeah? And the roller-skating one?” Crowley asked.

Akavish shrugged.

“Uh-huh,” said Crowley. “So what I’m getting from all this is that you don’t know how to fix it.”

“I didn’t say _that_,” Akavish said slyly. He drained the rest of the bottle. From another room a record player was still on from when they’d jostled into it, playing Dolly Parton’s “Here You Come Again.” A wistful smile broke over the old man’s battered face. “_Listen_ to that, dude,” he sighed. “Beautiful. You know, there’s a real shortage of beautiful things in Hell.”

Crowley grunted in agreement, then sighed, knowing that pushing the other demon for answers would only prolong the torture.

“I mean, that _voice!_ Haven’t heard a voice like that since I was in The Choir,” said Akavish. He shook the bottle, listening for any remaining drops. There were none. He glanced down at Crowley, who was staring vacantly across the room. “…Though I bet you hear one all the time, eh?”

“Hm,” said Crowley, shrugging, and then despite himself, smiled. Aziraphale, in fact, made “Silent Night” sound like cats mauling a chalkboard. But Crowley liked that about him, enthusiastic and shrill though he was; it made the angel seem…‘down to earth.’

Akavish observed the other demon’s silent smile, smirked, then said, “When that lady kicks the bucket, I’m gonna marry her.”

“_What?_” blurted Crowley, bubble popping.

“What?”

Crowley turned his head to look at him. “Dolly Parton. You’re gonna marry Dolly Parton.”

Akavish grinned. “_Yeah_, dude! I mean, talent, beauty, what more could you want? She’s all that and a bag of chips.”

Crowley gave him a perplexed look. “Isn’t she married already?”

“So? It’s only ’til death do them part. Then it’s my turn.”

Crowley tried to absorb this idea, then shook his head and leaned back again. “What if she ends up in the other place?” he reasoned. “She always seemed like a nice enough lady.”

“Psh, dude, if I can snag your angel like nothing, I can get a hu—”

Snarling, Crowley had cracked the spanner across Andrew Lloyd Webber’s face, dislodging another tooth.

Akavish just laughed. “Figured that would wake you up.”

“_SSStop_ it,” Crowley said, menacing over him. “Just tell me how to fix it. Now. And don’t give me any more of that rubbish about the power of imagination.”

“…Would it really be so bad, Crowley?” Akavish said, the mirth trickling out of his voice. “Would it be so bad if he became one of us? Nobody would care, y’know. You two could, like, carry on or whatever, and it wouldn’t matter anymore. You’d have eternity.” He smiled. “Like me and Dolly.”

Crowley stared at him. His mouth tightened into a grim line. His hand was still wrapped around the spanner, but for a moment, it shook. “Don’t try to tempt _me_, Andrew,” he said. “I invented the blessed concept. Just tell me how to fix it.”

The demon stared back at him in disbelief, then chuckled. “Was worth a shot. But whatever, dude. Do as you like.” He sighed. “So, how did the girl get saved in the musical? There’s your answer.”

“Dunno,” said Crowley.

Akavish frowned. “What?”

“I said I _don’t know_, I can barely remember any of it.”

“Awww, _dude_,” he said, disappointed. “Well, I guess it’s not your fault. Anyway, it’s like it always is—her man comes and saves her.” He smirked. “You’ll like that, won’t you?”

Crowley squinted at him. “Nah,” he said at last. “It takes more than _imagination_ to corrupt an angel, so roleplaying some fairy story won’t do. And why can’t I remember anything about that play, by the way?”

Akavish grinned. “Right on, dude. Yeah, it’s just occult magic I put in the pipe organ—it slides off of _you_ so you won’t interfere, but it’s _killer_ on heavenly bodies, like fuckin’ catnip. Bit of revenge for plagiarizing my design; I just reversed the polarity of their dumb celestial gizmos.” He waved a banged-up hand over where the CD player was still resting on its side on the floor. “All you gotta do is lick off the varnish I put on the CDs and then play it back for him, and he’ll be fine. Maybe avoid taking him to another live show, too.”

“That’s it?” Crowley said. “We spent all night having it out just for _that?_”

“Dude, more like all _day_. It’s, like, fully next evening now.”

“_What?_” said Crowley, scrambling to find a working clock.

“Yeahhhh, the bosses told me to stall you as long as I could, so I did. Celestials are more resilient than humans, so there’s like a six day incubation thing before the spell cements in ’em. But you still have a fighting chance—you’ve got ’till midnight before it’s permanent.” He checked _his_ watch, which was apparently still functional. “It’s basically ten now, F.Y.I.”

“_SHIT shit shit shit,_” said Crowley, limping his way across the room, picking up the CD player and the album case. “You _better not_ be lying to me, I swear to—to _Someone!_”

“Nope,” said Akavish. “They told me to stall you, not lie to you. Besides, I like a good story—no fun if it’s too straightforward.”

Crowley glared at him. “I don’t have time to tell if you’re still lying or not, but for your sake, you better not be. Ciao.” He wobbled out of the wreckage.

“Later, dude,” Akavish called after him, sounding for all the world like he was settling in to an easy night of beer and telly.

Crowley hobbled to his car. The ends of his wings trailed along the grass, sprained and dishevelled. He was drained: angels and demons, though possessing more power than mortals could comprehend, were not limitless founts of energy, and Crowley’s tank was skirting the edge of empty. (Even The Almighty, after the creation of the universe, had required a day of rest, and after the fight Crowley had been in, he’d need at least a long weekend to fully recover on his own.) He threw the CD player and album case into the passenger seat, winced and folded his wings back into the ether, got in, sighed, and spun gravel into the air as he sharply U-turned and started back for London.

At the speed he was going, he would be back at Aziraphale’s bookshop at a quarter to eleven, with plenty of time to reverse the occult spell on the angel.

Which of course would not do. 

_Hello, Crowley._

His eyes widened.

_It’s been a while since you’ve submitted a report, hasn’t it?_

His bruised knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. “I don’t work for you anymore.”

_But you’re still on Our payroll._

“Yeah, well, that’s your fault, not mine.”

_Care to repeat that?_

He gulped.

_We didn’t think so. Stop the car now._

His jaw clenched. His foot pressed on the gas, and the car sped up. A deer swerved out of his way.

_Don’t be an idiot, Crowley. This is for the good of all of Us. When We have the angel, he will tell Us the secrets of The Enemy. We will be able to secure a successful invasion. He will be on Our side. **Your** side, Crowley._

He sniffed. “Nah. Pretty sure he’d hate me if I let that happen.”

_Don’t be ridiculous. When he Falls—_

Crowley had, quite rudely, turned off the radio.

_—**As We were saying**, when he Falls, he will see reason in Our cause._

Crowley was shaking his head. A hedgehog ran for its life. “You don’t know him like I do. He’d be rubbish as a demon. Couldn’t even shoo off the first humans without giving them an unauthorized parting gift. He’s too bloody _nice_ for his own good.”

_That will change._

“Not gonna let that happen.”

_There’s little you can do to stop Us._

He breathed harshly, smoke streaming from his nose. “Not gonna stop me.”

_You’re a demon, Crowley. You can’t change what you are, no matter how much of a hero you try to play._

His mouth tightened.

_And as long as you’re a demon, he will always see you in a different light—as his opposite, not his equal._

“Doesn’t matter,” he murmured.

_You will not comply?_

He did not answer. He pressed the gas pedal to the floor.

_Very well. Then you had best keep your eyes open, deer._

A deer flung itself in front of the car and crashed through the windshield. He hadn’t had time to react—other deer had loitered in the grass, lumpy bodies visible to his demonic eyes, but this one had _miraculously_ popped from the farmer’s side of the fence to the middle of the road. The car veered into a fence and crashed through barbed wire.

_Ha ha…We did try to warn you._

After about a minute, Crowley lifted his head, moaning. His nose was out of place. One of his arms was broken and dislocated. He blinked fuzzily at a set of hooves that were an inch in front of his face. Glass was everywhere. The deer was stuck in the windshield, twitching.

“Oh, God,” Crowley groaned, and snapped with his good hand. The deer went still.

He sighed and snapped again—but this time, there was nothing but the sound like that of a candle flame being whiffed out by a sudden wind. He snapped once more, to the same effect. “Oh, _fuck!_”

_That was awfully kind of you, spending the last of your energy like that. Very helpful._

“_Shitshitshitshitshit_,” he whispered, resting his forehead against the steering wheel.

_Don’t worry. We’re sure you’ll make a full recovery in due time. In the meanwhile, just sit back and relax. It’ll all be over soon._

He made a primordial, anguished sound—a familiar one that We’ve all heard before. It was the sound of despair and loss, a howl so high and long it reaches Heaven’s gates and blesses all the angels there with the satisfying echo of their enemies’ desolation. He scrabbled for the CD player and album that were now bathed in glass on the floor of the car. Then he kicked the door open.

He heaved himself out with a mild scream and looked both ways down the dark, empty country road.

_It’s no use, Crowley. Help won’t come to you here. It’s the middle of the night in the middle of nowhere._

He took an unsteady step, then another, towards London.

_You won’t make it in time._

“_Shut the hell up_,” he breathed, accidentally dropping the CD player. He swore, then picked it back up. “I’m not gonna let you change him. You—I _can’t_.”

_It’s a shame you don’t put this much effort into Our cause. We really shall have to review your salary, We think. Some unpaid time off, perhaps a visit to Our bathhouse. You, out of everyone here, really **deserve** it._

“Aziraphale,” he said, eyes to London.

_You really are a sad little thing, aren’t you? We should just pull you down now and put you out of your misery. But, alas, that would rather defeat the purpose._

He said nothing, still hobbling forward.

_Give up. You can’t help your friend now. You can’t even help yourself. No one can._

He paused, swaying.

Then, impossibly, he smiled. “Oh, yeah? What’s that, then?”

And it was a—_no…NO, it can’t be!_


	5. Chapter 5

From: HA-SATAN @ 0: -9/666.6

To: HA-SHEM @ 0: 10/001.3

Subj: IMPORTANT

WHAT ARE YOU DOING???? STOP


	6. Chapter 6

From: HA-SATAN @ 0: -9/666.6

To: HA-SHEM @ 0: 10/001.3

Subj: ANSWER YOUR FUCKING EMAILS

STOP IGNORING ME AND ANSWER THE QUESTION YOU HACK


	7. Chapter 7

From: HA-SHEM @ 0: 10/001.3

To: HA-SATAN @ 0: -9/666.6

Subj: Re: ANSWER YOUR FUCKING EMAILS

:)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N**: Yo, you have the option of either clicking on the numbers OR hovering your mouse over the numbers to read footnotes.
> 
> (…Hopefully. Fingers crossed the html is kind to me.)

Prophets come in all sizes, great and small. Some make it bigger than others, though, and it’s hard for smaller prophets to measure up to the all-stars of Yore. The late Agnes Nutter had been the most accurate prophet in history, and she would’ve become one of The Greats if not for the fact that witch hunts were all the rage at the time.[1] That was the trouble with prophesying—while it made you a profitable gambler, it was always a gamble whether people would take you seriously, or _too_ seriously.

Strictly speaking, a prophet is a mortal who is in contact with a supernatural force and delivers messages on their behalf. Sometimes the messages are warnings about the future, sometimes they deliver knowledge and teachings, and sometimes it’s just a quick way to say “Stop it right now or I’ll turn this planet around so help Me.” Prophets are also more approachable than angelic messengers, who tend to go a bit overboard on the delivery, and they have a knack for perfect timing[2]—although that can be helped along if you pay for expedited delivery.

At exactly half past ten that evening, an International Express van squeaked to a stop in front of Crowley.

“Evening, sir,” said the International Express delivery man. “You look like you could use a lift.”

Crowley glanced over the shape of the van. “Bit late for you to be out delivering, isn’t it?”

“You’re my last one for the day, sir.”

“Me?”

“Yessir. Says so right here on my schedule: gentleman on the side of the road in Hampshire, near Sydmonton. Deliver to requested destination.”

“Ah,” said Crowley. He hesitated for a second, sampling the idea that this might be a trap. “Right then,” he decided, because a lift was a lift. He sidled up to the passenger door and set the CD player and album on the seat.

“Just a sec,” Crowley said, and he lurched back into the grass to his car. He pressed his hand to the roof and leaned in close. “I’ll come back for you, I swear,” he whispered, gave it an affectionate pat, and stumbled back to the waiting van.

“Where to, sir?” said the International Express man.

“London, Soho.” He cradled the CD player in his lap. “And make it fast. Fast as you can.”

“Right, sir.”

The van took off. It wasn’t as fast as Crowley would like, but short of hijacking the wheel himself, it would get the job done.

“Are we heading to a hospital, sir?” the International Express man asked.

Crowley would’ve laughed if he weren’t so tired. “No. I’ll give you directions.”

“…If you’re certain, sir.”

Crowley sighed and fumbled with the album case, popping it open with a nail. Eventually he pried out the first disc, then started licking it with a grimace. Sparks flew as his forked tongue met the surface.

The International Express man desperately ignored this. There are some things you just don’t want the answer to, and there are some things that aren’t really your business knowing, and the International Express man would not have been so dedicated to his job if he weren’t an expert at recognizing both of these things.

“Pardon me for asking, sir, but have we met before?” the International Express man asked. “You look a bit familiar.”

“Huh? Ahhhm,” Crowley said, who wasn’t in the habit of remembering most humans. “’S possible.”

“Few years ago, wasn’t it? Picked up a sword from you and another gent.”

“Oh. Mm,” said Crowley. “Yep, that was me.”

The International Express man smiled. “Thought it might’ve been. Never forget a face, me.”

“Good for you.” Crowley spat the taste of occultish varnish out the window. He eyed a photo that was taped to the dashboard: it had the International Express man, his wife, and a pudgy-faced toddler smiling together. “That your family?”

His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his bespectacled eyes. “Yessir, that’s the missus—Maud—and our little girl Jane. Janey, we call her. She’ll be three in May.”

“Cute.”

“As a button, sir. She’s in love with dinosaurs at the moment. Keeps digging up the yard hoping to find fossils. I’ve been putting seashells and chicken bones back there to keep her busy.”

Crowley smirked and made a mental note to add a stegosaurus skeleton to their yard later.

“You a family man, sir?” the International Express man asked.

“Me? Nah,” said Crowley, struggling with the album case.

The delivery man’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s a bit surprising.”

“Is it?” Crowley said distractedly. “Aha!” He finally prized the second disc out of its cavity.

“A bit,” the International Express man said. “You have that sort of air about you.”

Crowley’s face scrunched in utter disbelief as he turned to stare at him. “_Really?_”

“Yessir.”

“Huh,” said Crowley. He sighed. “Well, I was a godfather of sorts for a bit.”

“That would do it,” said the International Express man. “It never really leaves you, you know, once you pick up the knack for it.”

“If you say so,” Crowley said, and started licking the second CD.

When they pulled up outside Aziraphale’s bookshop, it was 11:30 right on the dot. The lights were still on inside, which wasn’t unusual given that Aziraphale never slept, but _was_ unusual in that the blinds were still up. Like wide, expectant eyes, the windows glowed.

“Thanks for the lift,” Crowley began, reaching for the door handle.

“Just a moment, sir, need you to sign this.”

Crowley rolled his eyes but took the proffered pen with his working hand and scrawled an indecipherable flourish on the line marked with an X.

“Thank you, sir. Have a good night.”

Crowley winced and groaned as he stepped onto the pavement, broken bones and stinging muscles and shoulder loudly protesting after being given a too-brief respite, but he nodded back at the delivery man. “Cheers.” He curled the CD player and album under the functional arm and shuffled to the bookshop as the van trundled down the street.

He hadn’t even needed to knock before a frantic angel was in front of him.

“Where have you _been?_ Oh good Heavens,” said Aziraphale, taking in Crowley’s chewed-up-and-spat-out new look.

Crowley pushed the CD player into Aziraphale’s ribs. “Play it, angel.”

Aziraphale scrambled but caught both the player and the album. “But—my dear, you’re—”

“_Later_,” Crowley hissed, limping inside. “Play it first, then give me the strongest whiskey you’ve got.”

Aziraphale dithered for only a second, then followed through. As he set up the player, Crowley gingerly sat down on the cushy sofa with a hiss, clutching at his throbbing shoulder.

Soon, thunderous pipe organ notes flooded through the bookshop, and to Crowley’s relief, it sounded…normal. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on it before, but there had been a _strain_ in the demonic music that had set his teeth on edge, like an invisible lasso pulled taut and quivering. Now, it flowed with smooth, human liquidity, and most reassuring of all, he could feel the music _sticking_ rather than sliding off his brain. He sighed.

Aziraphale pushed the whole bottle of whiskey into his hand. Crowley could’ve kissed him for that. Instead he knocked back a colossal gulp.

“Oh dear,” Aziraphale muttered, prodding at Crowley’s shoulder, which drew another hiss. “This is going to take a while. What in Heaven’s name did you get yourself into this time, dear boy?”

Crowley gave him a tired look. “There was a deer.” He chugged a fourth of the bottle.

Aziraphale returned his look with a sceptical one. “It looks like the deer won.”

“Yeah, that about sums it up,” Crowley said, too exhausted to really go into it. The ending was all that mattered anyway.

Aziraphale sighed. “I suppose I’ll look forward to hearing about it later,” he said with the faintest hint of the imperative. He started rolling up his shirtsleeves[3] and eyed the whiskey bottle. “You should probably drink another fourth of that before I begin.”

Crowley, momentarily distracted, drank obediently. The whiskey was doing its magic, and while it didn’t make the pain disappear, per se, it made the sofa feel noticeably cosier, and it made things like “Let’s get that coat off, shall we” sound like Friendly Preludes rather than hellacious overtures.

When the shoulder went back in place, the shout that followed rattled the windows. A long stream of cursing rumbled after like thunder, which Aziraphale paid no mind to. He was already working on convincing the rest of Crowley’s arm to unbreak properly.

The problem, essentially, was that ethereal and occult essences were a bit like human blood—in humans, blood has the same basic function, and it looks identical to the naked eye. But while some blood types can be mixed and get along swimmingly, other types get along like orthodontic braces and crunchy apples. In this case, Crowley’s demonic essence was reacting to angelic miracles being performed on it as if it were a dog that had spotted an unfamiliar postal worker walking up to the door.

But luckily for them, supernatural essences have more wiggle room than human blood, and Aziraphale and Crowley had discovered centuries ago that although their essences weren’t _perfectly_ compatible with each other, they were compatible _enough_. Enough to heal each other if necessary, though it was rather unpleasant and more inconvenient than healing oneself, and enough that some of the lighter miracles they might perform on each other felt more like a tickle or an itch. It was like training a metaphorical dog not to bark at metaphorical strangers, and given enough time and the right circumstances, the two essences might even become friendly with each other and evolve a tail-wagging familiarity.[4]

“Well, my dear, I’m not sure what you did, but that music actually _does_ sound a lot better now,” Aziraphale said, placing his thumbs on either side of Crowley’s mangled nose.

“Good,” Crowley grunted.

Aziraphale raised his eyebrows, silently asking permission.

Crowley sighed. “Get on with it.”

The nose snapped back into place with an accompanying demonic yelp.

“Very good,” said Aziraphale. “Those looked like all the bad ones. The rest should go a bit more smoothly.”

“Guh,” said Crowley, leaning back against the sofa. At least now he was just a giant Ache instead of a series of Piercing, Shattered Limbs. “You know, I almost think you _enjoy_ doing that.”

“Don’t be silly,” Aziraphale said, plucking Crowley’s cracked sunglasses from his nose and, with a flick of his wrist, restoring them anew. Crowley hadn’t even realized they were broken. “I’m an angel, Crowley, I don’t delight in suffering.” He gently slid the sunglasses back onto Crowley’s nose. “There we are.”

Somehow, underneath the flood of whiskey on his tongue, Crowley could _taste_ that the aura around the angel was different—or rather, that it was back to normal. He hadn’t realized how accustomed he was to Aziraphale’s sweet angelic scent of book glue/sun-after-a-spring-rainshower/cinnamon sticky bun until it was back from wherever it’d disappeared to.

“Uh.”

“I’ll have some of that, if you don’t mind,” said Aziraphale, reaching for what was left of the whiskey.

Crowley wobbled it at him. “Uh, sssure.”

Aziraphale swigged a modest gulp straight from the bottle, then handed it back. Crowley automatically took another gulp, discovering that it’d been filled back to the top again. His mouth burned.

“Let’s take a look at the rest of these,” Aziraphale said, skimming his fingers along nicks and bumps and bruises and gashes peppered over Crowley’s skull from one too many broken wine bottles. They healed over with a tingly, pins-and-needles sensation. “This deer wasn’t a very honourable fighter, my dear.”

Crowley held very still, clutching the whiskey bottle. “N-Nah, well, you know. Deer. They never are. Honourable, that is.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Oh, I don’t know about _that_. But maybe I’ve just been lucky and always ran into the exception.” He pressed a thumb over a gash on Crowley’s right eyebrow, frowning. “Hm. Bugger. This one’s being stubborn.” And before Crowley could even mentally click the seatbelt on his heart, Aziraphale leaned over and pressed his lips to the offending spot.

It lit up like a fire sparkler, blue sparks flying into the air as a Holy Spirited mouth of fire met the sulfuric-tinged skin of a demon.

“There, all better,” Aziraphale chirped.

Crowley stared at him, head spinning.

Aziraphale’s eyebrows pinched together. “All right, dear?”

“Nn-njk?” Crowley tried, then tried again. “N-Nothing, just…just remembered. You used to do that with the kid.”

“Pardon?”

“The Wrong Boy,” Crowley clarified. “Whenever he skinned a knee or something.”

“Oh, well, they say kisses make it better, don’t they?” Aziraphale said with a smile. “Suppose I just got into the habit of it. Though it’s not like you haven’t picked up a couple of parental quirks yourself from those days.” He calmly went back to tracing his fingers over thin marks sliced across Crowley’s cheeks, his temples, his ears, leaving prickly tingles in their wake.

“I—I did not pick up _habits_,” Crowley protested.

“You have,” Aziraphale stated. “You still do that mouth thing whenever you offer me something off your spoon.”

“The _what?_”

“You know, that thing mothers do when they’re encouraging their infants to open wide for the choo-choo train. They open their own mouths a little, too, so the child mirrors them.”

Crowley spluttered like he’d never spluttered before. “I DO _NOT_ DO THAT!”

“You do. I’ve been on the receiving end of it more times than I can count,” Aziraphale said, practically _sparkling_ with effervescent bastard energy.

“Th-THEN WHY HAVE YOU NEVER _SAID_ ANYTHING, ANGEL,” Crowley said, a heavy blush flooding over him. “By the Nine Circles, have I been walking around with _spinach_ in my teeth for the past three decades, too?! You could’ve _mentioned_—”

“If I had, you would’ve stopped,” Aziraphale said warmly. “And I found it rather sweet.”

Crowley, gobsmacked, could hardly think of what to say to that. If he’d had any energy for it, he might’ve turned into a fish and floundered away from the situation entirely. Instead, he eventually settled on a quiet, hissed, “’M not sweet.”

“I won’t tell a soul,” Aziraphale promised, adding in a bastardly wink. “Oh, there’s a couple here, too,” he murmured, tilting Crowley’s chin to get at a few stray bruises.

The music filled the room like a warm cup of tea on a cold and cloudy night.

_Say you’ll share with me one love, one lifetime,_  
_Say the word and I will follow you,_  
_Share each day with me, each night, each morning…_

“I—I do rather like the sound of that one, don’t you?” Aziraphale said, thumb pressing at a spot just beneath his ear.

Crowley gulped, a pulse he shouldn’t have ringing up to meet the angel’s touch. “’S not bad.”

He smiled. “I’d hoped you might think so.”

A great stillness fell over them, with a love song playing softly, deftly.

“Um,” said Aziraphale, “I just—just missed a spot.” Then, all too quick, he pressed a sparking kiss to the corner of Crowley’s mouth, meeting the warmth of his cheek, and then immediately flew away into the main room with a great flutter of wings, gibbering, “ReallyIoughttoclosetheblindsWouldyouliketea.”

Crowley stared into space for twenty seconds. The corner of his mouth burned like static shock. Whiskey dropped to the floor. He dimly mouthed the word, ‘Now?’

Then, to himself, he whispered, “Now?”

He stood up. From the other room, the music abruptly stopped, and it kicked something inside his head, like seeing the last winning number on your lotto ticket. It was Now. It was _Now_.

His wings flew out, and he took off after Aziraphale, only to realize too late that he’d forgotten just how sprained his wings were. He crashed to the floor at the angel’s feet. Aziraphale was stunned into silence.

“A-Are you all right, my dear?” he managed at last.

“Nrgh,” said Crowley, facedown.

“Oh—oh dear,” said Aziraphale, bending over him. “Where does it hurt?”

Crowley looked up, and, being one to make the most of a bad situation, grinned. “_Everywhere_,” he said, and tugged the angel down with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] The _least_ accurate prophet in history, however, became rather infamous in his circle of influence, and people still talk about him to this day. His name was Paul, and he was a weatherman who correctly predicted rain—just always one day off the mark. [return to text]  
[2] Provided they weren’t weathermen named Paul. [return to text]  
[3] It was a habit he’d picked up from moonlighting as one of Nightingale’s nurses in the Crimea, since he found it annoying to constantly miracle bloodstains out of his clothes. [return to text]  
[4] Which they were imminently on the verge of discovering. [return to text]
> 
> **Further Acknowledgements**: With thanks to [La_Temperanza](https://archiveofourown.org/users/La_Temperanza/pseuds/La_Temperanza/works?fandom_id=5450) for providing templates and tutorials on how to do things like Make Email Boxes Happen and How Do Footnotes.
> 
> **A/N**: Hope you had fun reading this, everyone! Of course, I always welcome comments and kudos, but if you enjoyed reading and feel the urge to spread this to your friends/followers, I’d appreciate it if you reblogged [this link](https://canolacrush.tumblr.com/post/189733592434/i-believe-in-a-thing-called-love-never-dies) for it to get the word out. (Tumblr, in its…questionable wisdom, decided I was blacklisted from ever appearing in the tags under any circumstances, so I basically just end up shouting into the void on my blog lmao.) Thank you!


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